The War on Maple
by Christiana G Jennings
Summary: Elliot and her brother run rival, self-owned cafes and won't stop until the other decides to close its doors. But when Starbucks opens across from Elliot's cafe on Maple Street, it's either fight, or close.  No copy right infringment intended.
1. Chapter 1

The War on Maple

One

_Roma Elliot _was a small café across the street from Maple Avenue and on the corner of West and Maine. It was quaint; a soft, warm square of brown with large glass windows and patio with round tables shaded by creamy umbrellas. Elliot Haven stood behind the polished bar of her shop, punching away at the cash register with slender fingers as her customer dug through her purse for change.

_Ding. _Elliot looked up and smirked, running a hand through her bangs as a young man entered the café, his strides long and confident. She thanked the woman at the register, handed her a cappuccino in a warm, paper cup, and watched as she brushed passed the man, slipping through the door. The newcomer approached the bar as Elliot lifted the small gate that kept her isolated and moved to cut the man off, leaning back against the countertop.

"Elliot," the young man smiled impishly. "Business a little slow this morning? Where's Denise?"

The young woman opened her mouth in a silent "oh," folding her arms across her chest. "Clark, don't even start. I haven't seen a single person entered your store since yesterday."

"Really?" Clark asked, peering around her to the shiny machine on the back counter. "What's that, new toy?"

Elliot narrowed her eyes, slowly moving her hands to rest on her hips. "Yes…a new steamer. I just got it in a few days ago."

"I see."

"Clark."

"Hm?"

"Get your ugly backside out of my shop."

Clark blinked at her, putting a hand to his heart and giving a small bow. "Whatever Her Majesty says."

He backed away and Elliot moved with him, stopping halfway to the door. "So not no offend you with my backside," he grinned.

At this time, Denise made her entrance, pulling open the door as Clark left, slamming shoulders with her so she teetered precariously on her six-inch heels. Denise watched his retreating back, and both women followed him with their eyes; across the street, down the sidewalk, and through the glass doors of _Le Petit Café_.

"I don't know why you even let him in here," Denise mused, clopping forward in her heels and looking around. "Business a little slow this morning?"

Elliot rolled her eyes and ducked back behind the bar. "The usual?"

"Oo," Denise ignored her, "is that one of those things that puts out foam? I'll have a caffé mocha. That would mean foam, right?"

Nodding, the shop owner turned, her inch-long ponytail bobbing with the motion. She filled a cup with espresso and chocolate, then held the cup beneath the tap of the steamer and pulled down. Milk foam slowly poured out, making delicate swirls before Elliot topped off the drink with a glop of whipped cream. Denise took it and raised her eyebrows.

"Right," Elliot said. "A spoon for the whipped cream and a straw for the espresso; there you go. And besides, how I am supposed to keep Clark out? He's my _brother_. He'll find someway to get in."

"A No Dogs Allowed sign could work," Denise proposed.

Elliot laughed. "I'll think about it."

Denise grinned and tucked in as she made her way to the usual seat, the one in the back corner beside the only glass window that Elliot ever bothered to wash. Elliot followed her most loyal customer to the table, adjusting a few painting that hung on the wall as she went. The jingle of bells signaled a teenage couple as they entered the café, walking hand in hand. In the girl's free hand, a cup of coffee already swirled with steam. Elliot squinted at it, trying to read the label. _Le Petit Café_.

"Hey," Denise said to the couple, jabbing at them with her spoon. "We don't accept any _Le Petit _customers here!"

Elliot ignored her friend and slipped behind the counter to get the couple's order with a quick, "Denise, you have chocolate syrup between your teeth."

"I do not." But she pulled out a compact mirror and checked anyway.

"So how's your grandma?" Elliot asked, wiping the counter as the teenagers went outside to sit on the patio.

Denise groaned. "Still as rich as ever. She won the lottery, _again_, and won't give one red cent to any of us kids. It's immoral! I don't mean to sound horrible, but sometimes I wished she'd just die already. But no, she had to go and get that stupid 'Life Alert' thing. They've brought her back to life twice this week alone. Just let an old-timer go why don't you?"

"Mhm," Elliot mumbled, leaning on the bar with her chin propped in her hand.

"Gosh El, you're not still trying to figure out who bought the old department store across the street are you?" Denise sighed, licking the back of her spoon. "You're usually so intent on helping me plot the death of my dear sweet grandmother."

Elliot tossed aside the rag in her hand and frowned. "I have a bad feeling about it. If it's another coffee shop, Clark and I are both doomed. We don't get much business anyway, and if there were three shops within a one block radius…"

Denise's chair scraped against the floor as she walked to the trash and tossed out the empty cup, her eating utensils jammed inside. "Then I'd still be coming here. Don't worry about it."

"Thanks," Elliot smiled. "See you tomorrow then, Dee."

"If I see Clark, I'll push him in front of a car for you, then there'd only be one café," Denise grinned, and then she hip-swayed her way out the door, passed the young couple, who shot her poisonous looks, and down the sidewalk.

Around the time Denise vanished from view, Garrett Harvey skidded into the café, his dark blond hair a mess of thick curls as he gripped the doorway. "Hey, boss. Sorry I'm late."

"I hired you on an instinct," Elliot said, pointing the rag at him. "Don't make me regret it."

Garrett shook his head. "No ma'm."

Outside, the couple was conversing. The boyfriend held out his _Roma Elliot_ cup to the girl across from him, but she wrinkled her nose and shook her head critically.

"All right then," Elliot said, a small frown on her face as she tossed him his apron. "Suite up."

The boy stared at the white lace that lined the straps. "But it's pink."

Elliot smiled. "Yep. And you're late."


	2. Chapter 2

Two

The next morning, Denise and three other customers sat in the café as Elliot hunted in the back kitchen for a pie to set out. The young couple from the day before sat once again on the patio, sipping and talking, when the bell clanged. Elliot ran a hand through her hair, brushed off her apron, and went to the front counter. The woman who had come in the day before stood in the center of the shop, hands on her hips as she looked around.

"Can I help you?" Elliot asked, popping open the register.

"Yes," the woman's head snapped around, her eyes locking on Elliot. "I would like a…" she withdrew a slip of paper from her suite pocket. "A cup of milk foam."

Elliot blinked. "A cup of foam?"

"Milk foam," the woman corrected, tucking away the paper.

"Um…we have a lot of really great mochas," Elliot said. "Are you sure?"

Glancing over her shoulder to the glass window, the woman nodded.

"You're the boss," Elliot said, snatching up a cup and moving to the machine.

She pulled the tap and waited as milk foam blurged up the sides of the wax-lined cardboard. Then, she saw it. Wrinkling her brow, Elliot removed a small business card from the top of the steamer.

_Le Petit Café_

_Where all of your French Coffee fantasies come true_

_3477 Maple Avenue_

_663-9972 _

_Manger:_

_Clark Haven_

"What the he—" Elliot's curse was cut short as the funnel of the tap groaned.

She screamed as the tap burst, white, creamy lava spewing across the café. Elliot clutched the cup and shoved it against the broken steamer, foam squirting from around the edges as she tried to contain the tsunami. The woman who had requested the Nothing-But-Foam drink ducked behind the bar, balancing in her pumps as Denise scrambled to help Elliot. Denise leaped over the counter just as the base of the cup exploded, shooting away from the sides. It smacked against her forehead, soggy with foam, and slid down the side of her face. Elliot dropped the cup and moved to help Denise, only to slip and fall in the white froth that layered the floor behind the counter.

"Unplug it!" Denise shrieked, a glop of foam splashing against one eye. "UNPLUG IT!"

_Ding. _The teenage boy from outside bolted through the door, his girlfriend left to gawk in the entryway. He slid through a puddle of white and ducked under the gate, slamming into the counter beyond and ripping the steamer's cord from the outlet in the wall.

There was a loud gurgle, a _spa-lurp_, and then the machine died, a few teardrops of foam plopping to the ground before the café went quiet. Elliot sighed through her nose, which was clotted with milk foam, and picked up the melted together, sog-mesh that had once been a cup. The woman behind the bar peeked up, her hands lathered, but otherwise unharmed.

"Here's your freaking foam," Elliot snapped, sliding the glop of cardboard across the countertop; clearing a path through the bubble-like substance.

The woman bit her lip, looked down at the mess, and quickly vacated the area. Denise swore and flapped her arms, foam smacking to the ground as she shook it off. Elliot glared as the woman disappeared, wiping froth from her light brown hair and letting it drop to the floor with a _thwuck_.

Elliot rubbed her eyes with the thick of her palm and surveyed the damage. Two chairs were turned over, covered in marshmallow-y white; the windows were covered in foam suds, and the floor was caked up to the remaining four's ankles. The boy who had pulled the plug stood beside Elliot, the cord dangling from his fist. His girlfriend slowly picked her way through the mess and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Thanks," Elliot breathed, wiping her hand on her already soaked apron. "If you ever come back, you can have a free coffee."

"Okay," the boy nodded, holding out the cord. Elliot took it and he bit his lip. "We're um…we're going to go."

The young café owner dipped her head and pressed her hand against her temple, trying to calm her pounding head. As the couple slipped away into the autumn day, Elliot knew those were two customers she would never be getting back. Or maybe they would, if they ran out of coffee money.

"Denise?"

Her head perked up. "Yeah, El?"

"Can you, uh," Elliot closed her eyes. "Can you get me a mop or something, from the back kitchen?"

Denise nodded. "Sure, El. Whatever you need."

"Thank you."

Elliot watched Denise disappear through the door and found a clean towel to wipe her hands on before sloshing her way to the center of the café, barely able to believe the mess her bother had created. She went to one of the windows and swiped one sleeve through the foam, smearing it more than actually cleaning. But still, there was just enough cleared away that she could see the figure standing on the curb, one hand shoved leisurely into his pocket.

"Saboteur," Elliot muttered, her teeth clenching.

Clark stood on the sidewalk, staring at her through the window, while steam curled from the _Le Petit Café _cup in his hand. Meeting her gaze, Clark raised the cup to his lips and sipped, the corners of his mouth tugged up into a wicked grin.

And then, he froze, his eyes widening at something over Elliot's shoulder. He took a step back, but not all the steps in the world could save him from the fury of Denise. Elliot didn't even turn as her friend exploded out into the street, a mop waving wildly above her head.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" Denise shrieked, her face red as she barreled towards Clark—all five feet of her.

A lesson to be learned: There is no fury like a short woman's scorn.

The young man looked from side to side, tossed his cup into the gutter, and ran.

"Come back here and fight like a man! Yeah, you'd better run," Denise warned, moving surprisingly fast in her heels.

Elliot watched, blowing a piece of foam-coated hair from her eyes, as her best customer lunged for her brother, mop at the ready. Clark yelped, but to Elliot, the sound was lost to be only a comical, silent scream that widened his mouth to the point where she would have been able to fill it was a grapefruit. Denise swung, Clark ducked, and then scrambled for his store.

The door jingled and Elliot turned to find Garrett standing just inside the door, his eyes scanning the massacred shop.

"Holy crap."

Elliot sighed. "You're late."

"Yeah, but Elliot this is—"

"Do you want me to fire you?"

Garrett's mouth snapped shut and he moved aside as Denise returned, her eyes narrowed so that a pair of crows feet crinkled the edges. She puffed out a breath of air and held out the mop, which Elliot took.

"That's one man that won't be having kids anytime soon," Denise announced.

Elliot groaned. "So now I'm never going to be an aunt either? Great, Dee. Great."

"You could get him back," Garrett said. "Worse."

"Right," Elliot smirked, stabbing the mop to the floor and swishing it through a glop of foam.

"I'll get a bucket of water," Denise offered, and scuttled off.

Garrett took the mop from Elliot and held it away as she tried to grab it back. "You really can. Toilet paper the place or something."

"Been there done that," Elliot mumbled, taking another swipe for the mop. "We have been at this for over a year and it's just…_ugh. _This went too far. Do you know how long it'll take for me to clean this up? And the money involved?"

"Just…" Garrett jabbed her ribs with the handle. "Let me figure it out, okay? What time does he close up?"

Elliot shook her head, wiping her forehead. "I don't know, eight-thirty? Nine? Just give me the mop!" She yanked it away and stabbed the floor again.

"So we're open later than he is?"

"Yes, Garrett, we're opened later."

Garrett grinned. "Not tonight. I'll be back, okay? Give me ten minutes."

"Garrett," Elliot flicked a piece of hair from her face. "Garrett? Garrett!"

But the boy was already halfway out the door, his footprints lingering in the white film that covered the tiles like a plaster mold. Elliot sighed through her nose and accepted the bucket of water Denise brought her. Then, together, they set to work.


	3. Chapter 3

Three

Garrett crept along the edge of the halo of light, slipping around the street lamp that produced it and ran the last few yards to _Le Petit Café_, a stuffed backpack slung over one shoulder. Two shadows followed him, dressed from head to stiletto pumps in black. Elliot scowled at the _click, click, click_ of Denise's heels, giving her friend a glowering glare. Denise shrugged and peered through the shop window.

The sky above them was gray-blue, almost black, and a soft glow spread across the street and sidewalk from the windows and glass doors of the café. Inside, Clark was alone, all of his three employees gone for the night. He wiped down the tables and counters, tossed the rag behind the blue-marble bar, and went to the rack for his jacket.

"Get down," Elliot hissed, dragging Denise away from the glass.

Clark flipped the open sign with one hand, oblivious to the three thieves in the night, and jammed his keys into the lock. Satisfied, he turned off the lights, pushed open the door, pulled on his coat, and started down the street towards his apartment on the east side of town.

The door closed slowly on its own as he walked away, and Garrett darted to grab the handle. Plunged into utter darkness, the boy caught the door and sighed, passing his backpack off to his manager as she slipped around him and into the café. Denise tiptoed in after her, leaving Garrett to shut the door quietly behind them.

_Le Petit Café _opened at quarter to six the next morning with the arrival of Clark and his workers. They yawned and stumbled in as Clark strode forward, a cup of coffee already in one hand. He stopped just before the doors, frozen in place as he scanned the neon orange vines that snaked across the insides of his store like a spider's web.

"We've been stringed," he said flatly.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside, hacking his way through the thick strings of Play-Dough-like Whoop-E-String. It clung to his hair and clothes, but all he could do give a small smile.

Grinning, Clark clapped his hands, a lone sound in a room of aghast café workers. "Well, done, Elliot. Well done."

"Um, Mr. Haven," Quinn LeClure pursed her lips, "why are you clapping?'

"It's—I'm—," Clark stared at the girl and lowered his hands. "I…never mind. Get this cleaned up."

"Sir?"

Clark plucked a slimy orange string from his hair. "You heard me."

Quinn sighed and trudged through the moist jungle, cringing away as she ducked and weaved to avoid the hanging noodles. The others followed her, but Clark hung back until they had cut a clear path for him to the bar. Then, he strolled to the phone and dialed.

"Hello?" Elliot's voice was ragged and out of breath on the opposing end.

Clark walked a few paces away from the counter, narrowing his eyes as he stared out the window. From there, he could see across the street and into his sister's café. She stood, leaning against the counter while holding out a cup for Denise.

"I've been stringed, Elliot."

The young woman turned slowly towards the window, then met Clark's gaze from across the way. "Oh?"

"Yes," Clark smiled. "Not quiet the elaborate play of revenge I was hoping for, El."

His smile grew as he saw the corners of her mouth dip down into a defeated frown. Somewhere behind him, Quinn and his workers struggled to pull open the door to the janitor's closet.

Elliot's frown slowly faded into a malevolent, wild grin. "Are you sure, Clark? Are you _really _sure?"

A prickle of unease stirred inside Clark and his smile evaporated, turning into a scowl of suspicion. "Elliot…"

There was a crash.

Quinn screamed.

Clark whirled.

The door to the closet smashed to the floor and the employees leaped back. Beneath the heavy wood, the marble floor cracked. Clark stared, trying to ignore the frightened eyes of the employees. Quinn swayed and dropped like a stone, leaving one of the others—Rick—to catch her. He grunted and dragged her towards a table to sit down.

"Clever," Clark growled into the phone. "You cracked my floor."

"I won't be able to open for another day," Elliot said flatly. "And some of my chairs are ruined. Oh, look, she's going to fall."

Clark's brow drew together just as there was another _crrrrassshh_. Behind him, Quinn lay sprawled on the floor, pieces of chair scattered around her as Rick stood over the entire mess, stunned. A single screw rolled away from one of the chair legs, only stopping to tap at the toe of Clark's shoe.

He stooped to pick it up and lifted it for closer inspection, the phone still pressed to one ear. Across the street, Elliot cackled.

"One more thing, Clark." The young man looked to his sister. She raised her eyebrows. "If you plan on reassembling your furniture, I would go outside."

Clark hesitated, but Elliot had already hung up. She popped out one hip and folded her arms across her chest with a nod towards the street. Preparing himself for an ambush, Clark put down the phone and stepped outside.

The air was cold and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket to warm them. He scanned the plaza of small stores, but saw nothing. Turning a questioning look towards _Roma Elliot_, he received a finger pointing straight up. Sighing, he craned his head back. Above him, slung across the top of the lamppost, was a plastic bag filled the screws, nails, bolts, and whatever else Elliot and her team had managed to dismantle. And, resting atop the nails, bolts, and screws, was a gleaming screwdriver.

"Well played, El," Clark said. "Well played."


End file.
